Possible- Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is not used to being cared about, and he makes that obvious. Can he make it up to Gregory? He is used to getting what he wants... Features an ongoing relationship, could be considered loosely connected with some of my other Mystrade fics. I hope you enjoy! I OWN NOTHING.


"Maybe I do want the impossible, but it's better than not wanting anything at all!" Gregory Lestrade prided himself on being an even tempered man, but when his patience was gone, it was _gone_. And maybe that was why it was so hard for him to reach the point where he lost control.

Once he lost his temper, he lost his ability to think rationally, which was why he was currently blowing up at Mycroft Holmes, the generally, cool, unruffled, unflappable man who was likely to simply raise an eyebrow and deep his explosion a "temper tantrum." But he couldn't help himself.

Greg had been dating this man for three months now, during which time he'd put up with a lot of crap. But this was his absolute limit.

"You disappear for two weeks without a word, then show up on my doorstop expecting us to fuck like you were never gone, despite the fact that I spent the entire time _worrying_ about you, wondering if you were okay or if you were ever coming back. You have the _audacity_ to come in here asking for sex and then wonder why I'm upset? You know what, Mycroft, I am done. _Done_.

"I know what it's like to have difficult work hours, I know what it's like to have little or no time for a social life for weeks at a time, but asking you to let me know _you're alive_ is not asking the impossible, no matter what you believe! It's asking you to treat me like we're in a relationship, something more than just fuck buddies! And if you're in capable of understanding that, you know where the door is, because I am so, so _done_ with this!"

Mycroft's eyes widened at the pronouncement, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Greg was obviously in no mood to talk. He was already walking away, and Mycroft heard the bedroom door slam shut with a violent crash, as if Greg had slammed it with almost breaking force. Mycroft, who knew what those muscles were capable of doing in a sensual setting, had never imagined them being violent. He hadn't though, prior to tonight, that the DI with the easygoing grin and devil-may-care attitude could ever be this angry.

For the first time, Mycroft Holmes had found someone who could put up with his crazy schedule, obsessive neatness, and most importantly, his insane little brother. And he'd cocked up but good. Because Gregory was right; Mycroft should have called, or at least texted. It just hadn't occurred to him to do so, and why was that? Because he wasn't used to checking in with anyone.

Mycroft's life had changed, and he had been starting to accept that, slowly. But then he'd gotten called into Ukraine to deal with a terrorism situation, and he'd forgotten he'd made dinner plans with the DI. And Mycroft Holmes was _not_ the kind of person who forgot things. He came to the realization that he'd been taking Gregory Lestrade, the only man who'd ever actually cared about him, for granted. And now Gregory knew it, and appeared be extremely angry with him, if he didn't in fact _hate him_ by now.

So why was Mycroft just standing there, trying to figure out how to respond? He wasn't sure how to apologize adequately. He knew, and had for a while, that this incredible man deserved someone better than him. Instead of showing him that, however, he'd hurt him. That was inexcusable.

Starting tonight, the government man decided, he was going to change things. He placed a call to his assistant.

"Anthea, I need you to cancel all my appointments for tomorrow. I may be cancelling the next day's appointments also, but I'll brief you on that later. Also, clear Gregory Lestrade's schedule for both days. Someone else can handle his cases." The woman who'd become his right hand told him it would be done in her brisk, professional tone, and he hung up without bothering with goodbye. He had something much more important to do.

Walking back the hallway, Mycroft knocked on the bedroom door, only to hear silence. He tried twice more, receiving the same response, before he tried twisting the knob. Unsurprisingly by this point, the knob wouldn't turn, and Mycroft sighed. He'd been locked out, and he read that message loud and clear. But he couldn't accept it. Retreating quickly to the living room, he opened a compartment on his umbrella's handle, pulled out his lock picking set, and got to work on Greg's door. It took him forty two point seven seconds, and he realized his skills were rusty. He'd have to practice that sometime later, but his current business could not wait.

"Gregory?" His voice was gentle, pitched low to be soothing, as he opened the door cautiously, half expecting a pillow or something weightier to go flying through the air toward him. Instead, he saw the DI, curled up with his back toward the door, lying perfectly still, his spine stiff.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside and closed the door, walking around the bed so he could look at Greg. His eyes were red, but he wasn't currently crying, which told Mycroft he'd been lost in thought for a little longer than he'd thought. He was also wide awake, evidenced by the fact that he was staring at Mycroft with anger in his eyes, mixed with resignation that made the politician's heart sink.

"Just get the fuck out, Mycroft. Don't you think you've done enough?" Greg's voice didn't shake, but he was surprised by how tired he sounded. Two weeks ago, on a stormy night much like this one, he remembered being so excited for a date with this man. He'd waited, first patiently, then impatiently, and finally stopped waiting six hours later when he realized that Mycroft was not coming. He'd assumed it was a work thing at first, but had started worrying after a day or two. And then, when the other man had walked in like everything was magically supposed to be fine because he was there…

"Tell me what I can do to fix this, Gregory. Please. I don't know what to do." There was genuine sorrow in Mycroft's voice, which gave Greg pause. For about half a second. And then he remembered why they were having this conversation. It was because the man had broken into his bedroom, despite the fact that he'd made it clear that Mycroft was no longer welcome.

"I don't think you can fix it, Mycroft. I don't think you can fix it because you don't even understand that you're continually disrespecting me, making me feel like I'm just your fucking play toy to do with what you will, assuming I'll always be around when you want me to be and then demanding explanations when I'm not happy to see you after you treat me worse than most people would treat a dog."

"Please, Gregory. I may not know how to do this, but I have great affection for you, and would like to salvage this. Please, just tell me how to make this right."

Greg sighed, because he was exhausted after two weeks of worrying, and getting angry and retreating only to be pursued by the last person he wanted to see just then, and because he knew that his need for rest was probably going to impair his judgment, which meant he was probably going to come to regret whatever he said next. But he was also too tired to care all that much.

"You can make it was right as possible by showing enough respect to get the hell out of my bedroom. You're no longer welcome here, Mycroft. This isn't some brothel where you can show up and get some whenever you want. I'm not some bloody ATM that can just keep giving and giving. And you've made it clear to me that you don't actually want anything more from me than that, so for both our sakes, just leave, and leave me alone."

Closing his eyes, Greg waited for Mycroft to make some comment about how he didn't plan to leave until Greg explained himself, or how he still didn't understand, or how stupid it was to fight when they were both men with healthy sex drives and had chemistry with one another. Instead, Mycroft stood there for another minute before letting out a miserable sigh, and heading for the door. In the doorway, he paused, and Greg prepared himself for one last zinger to drive the knife in deeper.

"I'm so, so sorry, Gregory. I never meant to hurt you." The words sounded painfully sad, and if Greg didn't know better, he'd think that the elder Holmes was on the verge of tears. He rolled over to see if his suspicions were correct, only to see the door closing, lock back in place. So that was it, then.

Blowing out a breath, Greg lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, grief lacing his every thought. The past three months had been closes to complete bliss, up until Mycroft's disappearance. The sex had been fantastic, the conversation stimulating, and the flirting had been a wonderful distraction from the demands of his day to day life.

But then he'd started to notice the little things, like how Mycroft never actually told him anything. He never knew where he was going, or what he was doing. And that was fine, really. Then had come the missed dates, blown off for some country Greg had never even heard of. And on one memorable occasion, about a week before his disappearance, Mycroft had stopped them _mid coitus_ to answer a phone call, and spent five minutes with his cock in Greg, ignoring him completely while he dealt with the problem. And then, without so much as an apology, he'd continued right where they'd left off after setting the phone on the nightstand. Greg hadn't gotten off that night, because after Mycroft was done, he'd feigned sleep.

Instead of calling him on it, Mycroft had studied him for a long minute as if he wanted to say something before shrugging and settling in to sleep. When Greg had woken up the next morning, he'd been gone.

And now he was gone for good. Greg was sad because of that, but he was done being in relationships with people who didn't respect him. It was like he had no input at all in Mycroft's life, and he was sick of it. For once, he just wanted to feel like he mattered.

Deciding that he was sick of dating, the DI closed his eyes, hoping sleep would take him before he could do something stupid like cry in regret.

When Greg woke up, he sensed something off, which was strange, because he hadn't had time to get used to having Mycroft sleeping beside him. Frowning, he got out of bed in his boxers and old shirt and padded barefoot out into the living room, which was as close to pristine as it had been since he'd moved in. Frowning, he wondered if Mycroft had done a sweep of the place to make sure he hadn't left anything of himself behind. Knowing how important the other man's position in the government was, that was entirely likely.

However, when he got to the kitchen, there was a plate of eggs and toast waiting for him, with a note beneath them and coffee on the side. He decided to read the note, debating pitching the food just for spite. In the end, his growling stomach won out—he hadn't eaten supper the night before, because he'd been interrupted by Mycroft's appearance—and he dug in while he read.

Dear Detective Inspector,

I would address you as Gregory, but I fear that I have lost that privilege, and I do not blame you if you hate me this morning. I know it was wrong of me to linger last night after you made it clear that you no longer want me around, but I wanted to make sure that you eat. I know you have a habit of forgetting, after all, when you've just solved a difficult case. And from what I've read, your last case was quite difficult.

I have asked my security people to not bother you again, and I will not force my presence on you again, as it seems you no longer want me around.

But I want you to know that I am truly sorry, Gregory. I did not mean to cause you pain with my actions, and I would do anything to make it up to you, if only you would let me. As that does not seem likely, I will do my best to stay out of your presence unless the situation makes it necessary. I wish you all the happiness in the world, even if that means that you are happier without me.

Love,

Mycroft

Lestrade was still staring at the note ten minutes after he finished eating, a little startled by the turn of events.

On the one hand, Mycroft was right; it had been wrong of him to stay after Greg had kicked him out. But on the other hand, maybe Mycroft hadn't paid as little attention to him as he'd assumed. He knew about Greg's habit of forgetting food after cases, and knew exactly how he liked his eggs—no yolk—and his coffee—two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of cream—and he'd removed the security detail that he'd always found bothersome and unnecessary, considering he didn't think he was all that important to the man anyway.

But the most interesting thing about the note, by far, was the closing. Love? Since when did Mycroft sign anything with "love?" He'd thought the man was allergic to the word, but evidently, he wasn't.

With a sigh, Greg folded up the note, but he couldn't quite bring himself to throw it away. He set it on the counter, promising himself he'd toss it later. And then he went to work. Where he found a dozen red roses—traditional, but also his favorite—and another note, this one simply stating that he hoped the flowers made Greg smile. Oh, and it was signed "Love, Mycroft," just like the first note had been.

Not sure whether he was supposed to be frustrated or amused, Greg shoved the note in his pocket and put the roses in a vase on his desk, ignoring the raised eyebrows he received for them every time someone came into his office.

When he left work that night, there was already a car waiting for him, with a note on the seat saying that, because the walk to his flat was a long one and there were few cabs about that late, he was more than welcome to use the car. The same closing followed this one, as well.

The presents continued, growing steadily more obnoxious as the week went on. There was a full course meal arranged on his own kitchen table, complete with two romantic lit taper candles, lunch from his favorite restaurant delivered to his office, a bottle of wine delivered to him that was the same kind and year he and Mycroft had enjoyed the night they'd gotten together, and even, on one memorable occasion, an umbrella delivered to him at a crime scene, five minutes before it started to rain.

Lestrade had had enough about the time he realized he recognized the umbrella. It was the one Mycroft was always carrying around. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, as he came to the realization that the only way to stop the barrage of gifts and "Love, Mycroft" notes was to actually talk to the man.

But by this point, Greg wasn't so sure they were over. He'd gone out of his way, after all, to show Greg that he cared, whilst mostly respecting his wishes. That at least merited some careful though, and he told himself that he wouldn't make up his mind until he saw the government man.

So when the next delivery came around—a handcrafted, personalized pen with his initials on it to replace the one that had died literally the hour before—he bade the delivery person wait while he scribbled a note of his own and tipped the young man to deliver back to the man who was sending him all these gifts. The boy smiled cheekily before agreeing to the request.

Two hours later, when Greg got out of work, there was a long black car waiting for him, with Mycroft, in a tuxedo, sitting inside with just a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"Detective Inspector," He greeted, nodding his head politely instead of leaning in to snog him as had been their norm. Greg realized he missed that, but more, he missed the look in the other man's eyes, flashing for just a second, that said he was reluctant to pull away. There had been a thousand such almost-tells during their time together, and Greg had started to understand the way the other man's mind worked as the week had gone on.

"I just want to make sure I understand some things, Mycroft. And I need you to be honest."

"Your wish is my command, Detective Inspector. Ask away." The words were said with a small smile, but the nervousness in his eyes was somehow more charming. Greg knew the man's next response would determine the course of both their futures.

"Why _did_ you disappear for two weeks without telling me, Mycroft? And stop it with the 'Detective Inspector' crap. You know my name, so use it."

Mycroft hesitated, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow as if to remind him that he had promised complete honesty. The younger man flushed red and looked out the window, murmuring his answer quickly under his breath.

"What was that? I didn't catch it."

"I… I didn't think that you would care." The words were still far too fast, but at least they were audible this time. Greg processed them for a minute, during which time Mycroft determinedly looked anywhere _but_ at him.

"And why did you think that?" This question wasn't as important to Greg, but he had a feeling it might give him some insight to the way the politician's mind functioned, so that he might understand things a little bit better next time Mycroft completely fucked up something that was supposed to be a social norm.

"Nobody ever has before. Nobody has ever been able to put up with me long enough to get to that stage of a relationship." These words were spoken stiffly, but Lestrade sensed decades worth of repressed hurt beneath the cover of snobbishness. And that pain made his heart, which he'd thought hardened, melt instantly.

"So you didn't know that I would care? Did you ever think that it might be possible that if I'd stuck around for this long, I might be planning to actually continue to do so?"

"I… no, I don't suppose I did consider that possible. Caring is not an advantage, Gregory, and I've said that often enough. I didn't think it was at all possible that you would care for me in any capacity _but_ that of a fuck buddy. There were no declarations of love between us, or promises, or even any obvious indication that you wanted more than our casual dates and sex after. I did not think it possible for anyone to want more than that, with me."

Greg laughed, the sound startling both of them. Mycroft instantly felt defensive.

"I am well aware of who and what I am, Gregory. You needn't laugh."  
"No, I'm just… you're probably right. Caring isn't an advantage. But I don't care. You gave me your umbrella, Mycroft. I've never seen you without the bloody thing, but you gave it to me anyway, even knowing it was going to rain. I stared at that damn umbrella for an hour that night, hoping you weren't out in the rain somewhere, needing it, when it was sitting on my lap in my empty flat, wishing I was with you instead. And that was when I realized that while it is entirely possible that caring is not an advantage, it doesn't matter, because I _do_ care, and I am in love with you, and if the whole bloody world blew itself up tomorrow I wouldn't give a damn because for the first time, I believe it's possible for me to be really, really happy. But you were wrong. If that's going to happen, you are going to have to be there by my side."

Mycroft stared at Greg. He had no words, and he was a man who always had words. Never in his life did he allow himself to be flustered, or sad, or in love, until this silver fox had walked right into his life and shown him that happiness was possible even for him. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, said silver fox grinned at him, leaning forward to snog him soundly, ignoring the driver and the hum of the road beneath tires, because nothing but Mycroft was important in that moment.

It took a few seconds for the reality of the situation to set in, but once it did, the elder Holmes had grabbed him and begun kissing him hard, somehow being both passionate and gentle, as if he could barely restrain himself but wanted to make sure that Greg wasn't uncomfortable. He flashed back to that night the phone had interrupted their sexual interlude, and realized that Mycroft had just been trying to salvage as much time for them to be together as he could, and realized that Mycroft had seen the refusal of his offer as a rejection. The younger man hadn't offered to blow him after that, he realized, a little ashamed that he'd been so neglectful of the other man's feelings, too.

Deciding that they could both apologize later, Greg hauled Mycroft out of the back of the car once they got back to his flat, getting them into the bedroom in record time.

"You know," Greg said, propping himself up on one elbow to look at his ginger-haired lover, "it is entirely possible that I love you."

"You know," Mycroft said back teasingly, "It is more than possible that I love you back. And despite all logic, I find that I am okay with that."

"So does that mean that you'll let me know when you're going to disappear?" Greg raised an eyebrow, hoping that they could turn the incident into a joke, just as soon as he was sure it wouldn't happen again. Mycroft, in a surprisingly quick move, rolled him onto his back, straddled him, and kissed him affectionately.

"I think that might be possible. Oh, and you needn't worry about me not coming home."

"And why is that?" The DI asked, intrigued.

"Because you've given me a good reason to come home The idea of never coming back to you is impossible to even contemplate."


End file.
